A serving of freedom
by NCR Ranger
Summary: There are Nazis to kill, but some folks are hungry for pasta bake


Sicily.

August, 1943

82nd Airborne Division.

01045, local clock

Town of Avola

* * *

_Si Vis Pacem, Para Bellum._

* * *

_Its too calm around here_

Lt. Clint Azgana couldn't shake that feeling. It was following him around like his own shadow.

As his sturdy, but well abused paratrooper boots left tracks along the roughly hewn stone sidewalks, he kept thinking that the oddly quaint Italian town definitely was lacking the comfortable hustle, bustle, and bright lights of his hometown: Dallas.

He was a heck of a long way from home.

Out here, the streets, like the one he was walking along right now, were largely built out of cobblestones, most of which weren't laid flat and leveled out, _and_ they were covered in varying levels of volcanic dust. On either side of the road that he and his squad were walking along, every building was built to look the same as the one right next to or across from it: the Mediterranean style tan-colored stone, with roofs made of darker tiles that slanted down sharply. That seemed a bit pointless- in all the time they'd been here, nobody in the 82nd had seen any black clouds, let alone a whole rainstorm of them. The best they'd gotten had been clumps of the pretty, cotton white ones instead.

Temperatures had been hovering at well around 90. It exacerbated the dust, a lot of which was all over the " classical " style of the surrounding building's architecture. It was a dry heat, as they were too far from the Mediterranean itself to get a taste of its refreshing ocean air. They were baking instead, with sweat trickling out in patches under their uniforms , lightweight though those were.

They weren't even lugging heavy ordnance, like bazookas or M1919s, or days worth of supplies. They were paratroopers; the biggest gun they had was the M1 Garand rifle that Clint himself was carrying. The rest of the squad was armed with M1a carbines, or Thompson SMGs. They had a few satchel charges and sticky bombs to saved in case they had the honor of encountering any German armor ( though , if they met any _Italian_ tanks, which at this point were probably being used by the Germans as joke machine for any of their rank and file who'd screwed up, those could be handled with a butter knife and harsh language ).

Yet, the heat remained a constant harasser. The men's canteens were already half empty. Private First Class Jenkins had roughly 3/4s of his, but he was from Nevada, which was essentially a giant furnace year round. He was better used to this than the rest of him, to slight degree.

_Brass couldn't be bothered to launch this invasion in _**December**_, though._

The Marine Corps, being the masochists that they are, would be singing in this heat, and boasting at how they loved living hard.

It was tempting to flick off some of the sweat drops on his forehead, but Clint wanted both hands on his M1. They were in enemy territory, and he wanted both hands on his rifle in case some form of trouble showed up. The layout of these streets, with their narrow width and winding paths, was fairly well tailored to ambushes.

The biggest wide open spaces were the town squares, and they hadn't reached one yet. As the first American units to enter the city, they were on their own for now, and out of the loop as far as the rest of the invasion of the island was going. They didn't even know who else had gotten into the city alongside them as well; they'd dropped a few miles outside ( landing smack dab in the middle of a vineyard, which was the only thing Italians were good for in this war ) the town, then hiked into it.

Their job was simple: Stay mobile, avoid where the enemy was strongest, and do what damage they could to the highest value targets. If there were any 88mm guns in town, for example, those had to die first.

Paratroopers were like scalpels- they were shoved into the enemy's most sensitive spots, twisted, and then yanked out. The rest of the army would then step in to finish the job.

Nobody said anything as they walked. Idle chatter while in a place like this was a surefire way to get attention of the lethal variety. Paras didn't have numbers or heavy firepower to get into fights they couldn't choose. Their only chance of getting out of one that they didn't was to end contact and bolt.

_Not if we meet the Italians, though. Oh, wait: They've basically bailed on their German buddies. That's fine. The Krauts are the real enemy here.  
_

They continued on, with the only sound being that of their boots as they marched. The sun crept higher into the sky, and heat waves began radiating visibly from every surface made of stone and rock.

Above all, it was too calm. Too peaceful. Normally, none of them would mind that, but with the island firmly in the grip of the Nazis, so much stillness was telling them that something was likely to happen at any second.

_Vrmmm, clnk, clnk, clnk_

Out of nowhere, the racket of a diesel engine emanated from some point ahead of them.

Immediately, Clint held up a hand, clenched into a fist. The patrol came to a dead halt, stopping in place, against the wall of the building they'd been walking by.

_clnk, clnk, clnk._

_" _Something's moving out there. German armor ? ", asked Corporal Gordon in a low, terse tone.

" What do _you_ think ? ", promptly retorted Sergeant Shugart gruffly.

The Lt said nothing, but kept looking down the length of the road. The sound was getting louder-

\- and then, way down in front of them, a Panzer Mk4 clanked into view. A small column of Volsgrenadiers traipsed along behind it.

_Well, great. A Panzer freaking 4._

_" Son of a bitch. "_

_" _Off the road, men. Go ! "

Turning to his left, Clint found himself facing what appeared to be a two story house, or apartment. A weather beaten, but clean, wooden door presented a way inside.

Putting a boot to it, Clint was grateful that it gave way so easily. He beckoned over his shoulder for the others to follow, as he hurried across the threshold.

" Come on, come on ! ", Sergeant Shugart commanded.

" Waiting on you, Leroy ! ", he added, as Jenkins brought up the rear.

Meanwhile, Clint found they were indeed in a house; they'd walked right into what was unmistakably a living room. A wooden table, with a sandy colored ceramic pot sitting on it, white plates and a tablecloth draped over it, and several chairs- all of them appearing to be in good condition- took up most of the room to the right of where they'd entered, with an archway that led off further through he house behind it.

And, it was occupied. A middle aged man and woman, with two teenage boys, were seated at the table. Each of them had a bowl in front of them, each of which was filled with what looked like some kind of pasta bake dish.

_Oh. Seems we interrupted someone's lunch._

The family's eyes all shot wide open with unfiltered shock at the sight of armed men suddenly appearing in their home ( as anyone's would ). However, they quickly realized they were American, not German ( the Stars and stripes patches on the men's shoulders were a bit of a giveaway ), and upon noticing that, they calmed down a bit.

" Maybe we should've knocked first ", Jenkins knocked one of his boots against the other, making a clear effort to shake off at least any amount of the dust that'd gotten stuck to their soles.

" Let me do the talking, Private ", Clint stepped forward. He was, after all, part Italian. These locals English couldn't be that good, but his Italian was, decent. Ish.

" _C-Ciao._ _Non, restiamo __( " Hello. We're not staying. " )_ ", he greeted them. He was careful to ensure that his M1 had been slung over one shoulder; last thing that wouldn't put them at east was seeing a big gun brandished.

"Hai una porta sul retro? ", Clint continued. ( " Do you have a back door ? " )

" What're they saying ? ", pondered Specialist Denkirk. He reached down to his utility belt, and pulled off the canteen, shaking it to test how much was left.

" Don't ask _me_ ", Jenkins deflected.

One way or the other, the locals had gotten the message that these Americans meant them no harm, and the exact opposite for the Germans, who none of them were allied with. The teenagers seemed borderline fascinated with the paras' gear, while the woman seemed understandably wary, but hadn't shrieked at least.

The man of the group was the fist of them to speak. He also seemed to be on guard, but not angry. He simply looked them up and down, and then said:

"Sì. C'è una via d'uscita." ( " Yes. There is another way out. " ).

With a audible scraping of the wooden chair legs against the wooden floor, he pushed his seat back, and stood.

" Seguimi. Andiamo ". ( " Follow me. Let's go. " )

He headed off past the arch. Clint turned his head to his mean, and pointed that way.

" Got it, Lt. ", Sergeant Shugart nodded.

They set off after the man of the house, weaving past the space between the table, and an antique wooden mantle in the corner. One of the boys twisted around to watch them, staring at them with curious expression.

_Maybe it'll inspire him in some kind of way_, Clint thought._ Having American soldiers dropping by for lunch isn't normal around here, I'd guess._

The woman remained silent, but as the patrol filed by, Clint inadvertently caught her eye, and she smiled slightly at him, nodding politely.

Without incident, the patrol followed their host to another door. It was the same color as the first one, with a scuffed floor mat by it. Some shiny farmer's boots were standing by near there as well.

Fishing a key out of one pocket, the man unlocked said door, then swung it open.

Outside, was a small unpaved path leading away. The alley that it fed into was unpaved as well, with other rear doors of other buildings lining it. Long, deep shadows were cast all over the place, as the height and angle of the buildings and homes blocked much of the light.

" Ecco qui. ", ( " Here you go. " ) the man stated, getting out of the way to let them get past.

" Grazie " ( " Thank you ", ), Clint told him.

He stepped outdoors again, then got off the path as his men marched out. Jenkins, who'd been last to enter, was the last to leave as well. The sergeants, inlcuding the ever good tempered Shugart, marshaled them into formation again as they got back on track.

The man watched them l, hands in pockets.

" Come ti chiami ? " ( " What's your name ? " ) , Clint asked.

"Il mio è Clint" ( " Mine is Clint " ).

The man glanced at him, as he'd been heading back inside. He looked at the para for a moment, then answered:

" Luicano ".

" Abbi cura di te, Luciano " ( Take care, Luicano " ) , was that Clint had to say to that. He was serious about it, too.

He turned to follow his men down the alley. The Germans weren't going to be leaving on their own; He and the rest of the 82nd were going to rectify that.

_That's what we came to Sicily to do. I don't want to go home till that's done._

As he set off, though, ready to take on death itself and perhaps come out if alive, the ma- Luicano, called out a form of goodbye:

"Che dio ti protegga, signore."

_May God protect you, sir. _

* * *

**A/N: A COD campaign about the Battle of Sicily would be a fine addition. Or, the Battle of Imphal. Instead, COD 2019 is an hollow " reboot " of the Modern Warfare series. A " reboot " that is badly out of place, because the series it is retconning was fine as it was. We got plenty of emotion and memories from that, but this new " reboot " wants to supplant them. It'll be a hot day in Antarctica before I let it do that  
**


End file.
